


Refusal

by lifeisyetfair



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Captivity, Gen, Sauron Being an Asshole, implied future torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeisyetfair/pseuds/lifeisyetfair
Summary: Before his brothers refuse to negotiate, Maedhros is treated as an honored guest.





	Refusal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaperRevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/gifts).



> This is my first Silmarillion fic; I just fell headlong into this fandom!

            This is the limit of his hope now—that the messenger bearing his brothers’ refusal is delayed upon the road a day, and another day. Between the impossible and the uncountenanceable, this is what is left for him to hope for—a loose horseshoe, a wrong turn, even, if it must be, a deadly ambush.

            (It is base to hope for the death of one in his own service, but is he not facing worse than death himself?)

            He is sitting at the high table in Angband. They have been careful not to serve him anything that requires a knife. Plainly for fear of what he would do to himself, their precious hostage, rather than what he would do to Morgoth. Morgoth graces the table, dark and solid as a tower, and eats not, nor speaks. The silmarils burn in his crown.

            The first night he had made a grab for them. The others at the table had subdued him long before he touched Morgoth. They had done so with a gentleness that frightened him. He was High King of the Noldor, of those who had defied fate to fight he who had marred the world. He could bear many things, but he could not bear that Morgoth should use him.

            That first night, Morgoth’s servant, the laughing Maia whom the Noldor named Sauron, had asked if he would write a letter to his brothers. He needn’t plead or even voice support for the exchange—his freedom for the Noldor’s cessation of hostilities—but merely offer proof of life.

            Thus far they had been gentle, too gentle, and he steeled himself for what must accompany his refusal. He would do nothing that might lead his brothers to abandon their oath and their father’s legacy.

            The Maia had laughed again when he refused, and he tensed for what would come after as Sauron drew too close, but the Maia merely looked him in the eye and said, “You really do take yourself too seriously.”

            Maedhros gaped.

            “You seem to think that we _want_ something from you, some form of cooperation. That would be nice, of course, but my master doesn’t care enough to take the trouble—and you should be glad of it. You’re the High King, and your brothers will have you out of here soon enough. There’s nothing to resist. Till then, you are simply our honored guest.”

            Every word of Sauron’s went through his veins like venom. His choices—his defiance--didn’t matter.

            But one didn’t defy the Black Foe of the World because one thought one might actually hurt him.

            “My brothers will give you nothing,” he hissed.

            “Fortunately,” the Maia said, “You have no say in the matter.”

            And so he sits at the high table in Angband, and avoids speaking to Sauron, who is surely clever enough to extract military intelligence from any innocent small talk. He knows how many days it has been, that the message must have reached his brothers, that a reply must have been sent by now—and, in rough outline, what will happen to him if it is a refusal. The worst is that it is his duty to hope for that fate.

            No, the worst of it is that he is sated of hunger and thirst, warm by the fire, free of pain, and that he wants to stay this way. That perhaps it is a good thing that none of his choices carry weight.


End file.
